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A Queen To Be
Chapter 3
Later in the same day…
The rooms they were given were hardly worthy to being called that – they were more like a cells, given the fact that two women, two young girls, and three children were expected to share them. Daella immediately heaved herself on the narrow bed meant for her and closed her eyes. Rhae busied herself with putting the boys to sleep in the three small beds. Rhaelle and Alaenys came to help her and the children fell asleep the moment their heads hit the pillows.
Rhae looked around. The two chambers were small, whitewashed and furnished only with beds, two tables with chairs, and a few cupboards. She felt a profound relief for the relative safety they offered. She wanted to follow her sister's lead, fall asleep and wake up a few years later. Right now, she was so weary that it seemed like a real possibility.
Rhaelle, however, was wide awake – and indignant. "It will be so crowded here!" she exclaimed, looking at the perfectly clean room as if it was a stable. No, she had never given the royal stables such a look. "I won't even have a room of my own?"
Rhae gave her a level look. "I don't like it either but we'll have to do. Two rooms, that's what we have."
"But there are no windows here!" the girl insisted. "Do we really have to stay?"
Rhae started making her bed. "No," she replied, "I dragged you all the way here just so I could cackle about it. Of course we have to stay! Do you have any idea how ungrateful you sound? The sisters are giving us shelter and I won't have you forget it!"
Rhaelle looked down guiltily. Her mother sighed. Once, she had not been so different. Now she could understand Aegon's frustration when she had expressed any displeasure at the various living conditions they found themselves after their elopement and banishment from the family. Rhaelle simply didn't know anything different that wealth and luxury.
Alaenys was already making another bed. She was a quiet one, the little Blackfyre girl. Of course, she wasn't really so little, just a year younger than Rhaelle but sometimes Rhae felt that Alaenys was years older. Age was not only physical, it was also what had been experienced, suffered, endured. For all the treatment they gave Alaenys, as if she were a protégée of the family, in reality she was a war trophy and she'd never let herself forget it, for the world would not. Rhaelle had lived a much more sheltered life.
"If we open the doors a few times a day, there will be some fresh air coming in," Alaenys now said and Rhae gave her a look of approval. No one said that they'd need to keep some candles lit the entire day. It was evident.
"I suggest that you both go to sleep," Rhae ordered. "We have traveled without stopping and we're tired. And tomorrow, we'll have to start working to earn our stay here. I want all of us to be rested. It'll be a hard day, I fear."
Her daughter started fumbling in her bags for her nightgown and didn't find it.
"You can take mine, Princess," Alaenys offered.
Rhaelle looked at her, stunned. "You want me to put on a garment that belongs to someone else?"
"When I was just a few years older than you, I often slept in sheets that had been used by complete strangers before," Rhae snapped, her patience finally worn out. "Stop put on airs and go to bed already."
It seemed that there was something wild in her eyes because Rhaelle obeyed without questions. Sometimes it helped to be the scary mother. The Seven knew that Aegon could never be the scary father, and to Rhaelle least of all. All in all, the girl knew only adoration from her father and grandfather, so someone had to anchor her. Rhae's eyes suddenly filled with tears at remembering that Maekar had never raised his voice at her, although he had done it quite often with her brothers. To her, he had been the most kind and attentive father there was. The thought that she'd never see him again, that her world would go on without him ailed her like an illness to the body. The fact that he had been rash, bitter, harsh, and too lofty was of no meaning to her.
"I think I'd like to learn how to tend a garden of herbs," Rhaelle murmured – the closest thing to apology that she could bring herself to offer.
Rhae nodded and fell asleep the moment she smelled her bed, although she had been sure that her concerns would not let her rest this night.
Two days later…
The inn was filled with the usual noise of many conversations, clattering of goblets, and hollering for more food. In one corner, a company of well-clad men loudly talked about the new situation that had arisen with the King's death and finally claimed that something like that should have been expected because a kinslayer's curse might come delayed but always came and in this case, the entire kingdom shared this punishment.
Jaehaerys' face remained impassive but when Ser Duncan pushed the bench a little back to gain more room for his long legs, he saw the young prince's hands under the table: they were opening and closing, opening and closing, and it was clear that Jaehaerys very much disagreed with this interpretation of the events but mercifully, he did not open his mouth as his father had done some twenty years back. Ser Duncan, though, was not at all certain that it would not happen at any given moment and he'd rather avoid it. They hadn't dyed the boy's hair brown only to have him reveal himself with some hasty word.
The young innkeeper looked at Ser Duncan – all seven feet of him – and whistled, clearly impressed. He grinned at her and lowered his voice to Jaehaerys, "If it wasn't for you, I'd sit her on my knee and have a good time."
"Please, Ser, go on with it. I wouldn't ever think to thwart you."
The tension of the last few days was taking its toll even on Jaehaerys' kind temper. Ser Duncan decided not to press the matter further. He had to save his patience for the next time when the boy would stick his head out of the window of the wheelhouse despite Aegon's explicit orders that his son was not to show himself anywhere before the two travelers reached him.
Now the conversation turned to the turmoil at King's Landing. Ser Duncan was saddened but not surprised to hear that the King's Hand had lost not only his authority but his very life in the riots that had bathed the capital in blood. Each lord who had not gone with the army – and some who had – wanted to sit in the temporary Council that needed to be assembled until the next King became clear. And they were ready to chase their ambition at the cost of death, blood, and tears.
Not that any if it mattered. The only important thing now was to deliver Jaehaerys safely to his father, so he listened to the conversations, hoping to get wind whether Prince Aegon had stayed with the army or had headed for another castle. At their separation, he had assured Ser Duncan that he'd be with the main body of the army but many things changed, especially in the aftermath of a rebellion or a royal death. And now we have both… Now, each face looked ominous. Each man they met could have a dark task that they were ready to fulfill. Ser Duncan hadn't slept for more than three hours in a row ever since the King died.
Suddenly, there was a great clamour outside. While Ser Duncan was trying to decide whether he should unsheathe his sword or not to risk attract unwanted attention, the air filled with horses whinnying and startled dogs howling. The door was thrown open and in thundered no less than thirty men, bare steel in their hands.
"Where is he, where?" they were shouting. "Where has he hidden?"
They started walking between the tables, overturning goblets, pushing plates to the floor and staring intently at the face of every man. The well-clad company tries to protest but the bare blades provided an excellent persuasive influence, so every disagreement was quickly shut up.
"Where is the Dornish bastard?" the men were shouting. "He must answer to us. We know he's here, we followed his wheelhouse…"
Alor Gargalen. They were looking for the Dornish lord, not Jaehaerys. Ser Duncan barely had time to sigh with relief when he realized, horrified, that the boy had also understood… and was angry. Before Ser Duncan could stop him, he rose.
"I am Jaehaerys Targaryen," he cried, "and I am the one traveling with the wheelhouse you saw. I don't like it when people break so noisily in any place where I am!"
The intruders had no idea that the Prince was no longer with his lady mother and the news stunned them into silence. Anything could happen in this realm, nowadays.
"Will you tell me who you are?" Jaehaerys asked again. "I talk only to people who had been presented to me and you'll excuse me if I say I don't think we've ever met."
"I am Lord Georgan Golden Oak," the leader said. "And these are Lord Caral Green Stream, Lord Eddard White Thorn, and Ser Henrit Sharal. We're looking for Alor Gargalen…"
"Oh! So, you're knights then?" Jaehaerys interrupted. "I wouldn't believe it for the world. I thought knights were supposed to protect those who were weaker than them, not scare them off and ruin honest innkeepers' business. I am ashamed for you. Look at the mirror. Are you not ashamed of yourselves?"
At this, there came a certain feeling of uneasiness among the intruders. They had hoped to lay their hands on the late King's Dornish goodson who had had much sway with Maekar and had received offices and honours that should go to true Westerosi nobles alone, not Dornishmen and not bastards. While Maekar had been alive, his iron fist had kept the Dornishman safe; when the King was no longer around, there was nothing to stop the hatred of the disgruntled from bursting forth.
The boy, however, was another matter. He was Targaryen. Prince Aegon's son. King Maekar's grandson. Whoever came to sit the Iron Throne at the end would not hesitate to punish everyone responsible for causing Jaehaerys Targaryen the smallest unease. Lord White Thorn remembered that he had seen him about a year ago when the King had granted him an audience. He assured the Prince that no one meant him any harm, that they only sought to bring the Dornish bastard to justice. Ser Duncan quickly stepped on Jaehaerys' foot, lest the boy started defending his uncle's honour.
After a brief consultation, the rebels made Jaehaerys and Ser Duncan go back into the wheelhouse where they were promptly joined by another current trophy and potential bargaining tool for negotiations with a powerful House – the young son of the dead Hand, a boy slightly younger than Jaehaerys and sick for weeks with fever. Ser Duncan prayed that the Prince would not catch the ailment. Jaehaerys was trying to foresee their captor's next movement. The armed men surrounding the wheelhouse were sure that this new twist would let them reach Prince Aegon and talk to him in person.
The night lay, starry and beautiful, and from time to time the full moon turned red before Jaehaerys' eyes, reflecting the flames of the many castles of nobles and houses of smallfolk that disgruntled lords and common brigands had set afire just because they could.